love is guilty of the things I’ve done;
the things I wish for;
the things I’ve been through.
love is guilty of the risk I’ve taken to walk through aisles of thorn
just to bless my hands with a red velvet
which speaks the language of my heart.
only angels can understand.
How else do I explain why I smile & bleed
& take a pat on my nape for the best well-done?
love is guilty of my obsessions and addictions
to your sonorous solo,
your smooth round face with wrinkles of beauty and perfection,
of how you smile and my worries
are hugged in the arms of consolation.
how else do I explain how my pulse stops a second without you?
love is guilty of magic.
how else would seven years of labour for Rachael melt
in just one night and tickle his inwards,
hug them to a forever calm by sedating answers?
how else do I explain the number of times I’ve trekked
through Alimosho Road and the wool of my heels
are still as new as a white veil not yet stained with blood?
love is guilty of all my losses and risks—
my ego and pride all went with my stool,
my manly strength melted with my sweat;
how else do I explain the risk of letting
down my heart to my knees
& the feet that stands is an elegant one?
love is guilty of me.
I am guilty of love.